Days Like This (20 page)

“Chico?”

“Chico Rodriguez.  You remember
him?”

“Of course.  We drove down to Atlantic
City with him back in ‘78.”

“Woman, sometimes that steel-trap
mind of yours terrifies me.  How the hell do you remember what year it was?”

“It was while Danny and I were
separated.  The first time.”   After the miscarriage.  And the infidelity. 
Both of those incidents had forever altered her life, and both were memories
better left untouched.

“Well, a while back, Chico
started a band called Cold House.  They’re on the last leg of a tour right now,
and the lead guitarist just ruptured a disc in his back.”

“Ouch.”

“He’ll be out of commission for a
while, and of course, they can’t function as a band without a lead guitar. 
They need somebody who can learn all their material in forty-eight hours, or
they’ll have to cancel the rest of the tour.”

“And you were at the top of their
short list.”

“Actually, I
was
their
short list.”

She closed her eyes, reminded
herself to exhale.  “How long?”

“That’s my girl.  No whining, no screaming. 
She just cuts right to the heart of the matter.”

“Damn it, MacKenzie, how long?”

“Three weeks.”

She resolved to look at this
philosophically.  It could be worse.  It could be three months.  Or three
years.  “I know the timing couldn’t be worse,” he said, “with the Paige
situation.  I’m so sorry to leave you holding the bag.  But I’ll make it up to
you.  I promise.”

His words sent an icy finger down
the center of her spine.  “Don’t,” she said.  “Please don’t say that.”

He zipped the carry-on bag and
straightened.  Studied her with mild curiosity. “Why?”

“Because that’s what Danny used
to tell me every time he screwed up.  And we both know how that story went.”

He squared his jaw.  “I’m not
Danny.”

“No,” she said.  “You’re not.”

He lay a hand over his heart and vowed,
“As God is my witness, I’ll never again promise to make anything up to you. 
From now on, what you see is what you get.”

“Isn’t that pretty much how it’s
always been with you, anyway?”

“Look, if this was my gig, I’d take
you with me.  You and Paige.  There’s no way I’d leave you behind if I had a
choice.  But we’re talking low budget here.”

“How low?”

“Tiny venues.  Under 500
capacity.  Roadhouses.  A creaky, ancient tour bus.  The occasional sleazy
motel room, with hot and cold running roaches provided at no extra charge.”

Dryly, she said, “Sounds quaint
and lovely.”

“Picture the most primitive, the most
godless and soul-sucking tour we’ve ever been on.  Then multiply the horror
factor by ten, and you might have a vague picture of the next three weeks of my
life.”

“In other words, you’re returning
to your roots.”

“In a manner of speaking.”  He
moved to the refrigerator, opened the door, and stood there surveying its
contents.

“I so hate to ask this question,
but how much are you being paid to participate in The Tour From Hell?”

Instead of answering, he took out
a bottle of Coke, closed the door, turned and leaned those lanky hips against
it.  Opened the bottle with a soft hiss, squared his shoulders, and just looked
at her.

And she shook her head.  “What am
I supposed to do with you, MacKenzie?  You do realize you’re one of the most brilliant
and sought-after guitarists in the Western Hemisphere, and you keep giving away
your services for free?”

He raised the Coke to his mouth
and took a long, slow swallow.  “I don’t need the money.  If I never worked
again a day in my life, I wouldn’t need the money.”

“That’s not the point.  The point
is that you’re devaluing yourself and your work.  Tell me this.  Did they ask
you because you’re one of the most brilliant and sought-after guitarists in the
Western Hemisphere, or because you’re a big enough name to give legitimacy to
the rest of their little band of misfits?”

“Probably a little of both.  Why
does it matter?  Sammy Hagar had a solo career before he joined Van Halen.  I
don’t remember you having a problem with that.”

“I wasn’t married to Sammy.  And you’re
deliberately missing the point.”

“I think you’re the one who’s
missing the point.  The point is, Chico’s running this thing on a shoestring. 
He’s in a bind, and I’m in a position to help him.”  He crossed his bony ankles
and waved the Coke bottle for emphasis.  “Look, I’ve been there.  When I had to
fire Tony Izzard after he showed up for work so stoned he could barely stand. 
When Kitty fell off the stage during rehearsal and broke her ankle.  I know
what it’s like to be in the middle of a tour and have to find some way to yank
a miracle out of my ass.  I couldn’t live with myself if I turned him down.  I’ve
learned a couple of things over the years I’ve been in this business.  One, you
never forget where you came from.  And two, you always remain loyal to your
friends.”

She let out a hard breath.  “How
can I argue with that philosophy?  It’s one of the things I admire the most
about you, your immutable code of honor.  You live your life by it.”

“Damn right, I do.  So you’re not
mad at me?”

“Of course I’m not mad at you.  You’re
a grown man.  You don’t have to ask me for permission to do anything.”  She
crossed the room, and he set down the Coke and wrapped his arms around her. 
She lay her cheek against his chest.  “It’s just…three weeks is a long time.”

“Ish.”

She stiffened, raised her head,
met his eyes.  “Ish?”

“Three-ish.  It could be a little
longer.  Depending.”

“On what?”

“On how well it goes.  We could
pick up a few more dates if it goes well.”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you? 
Damn you.”

“The getting back on stage and playing
part?  Absolutely.  The leaving you behind part?  Not so much.”

“I should be used to this by
now.  After all the years with Danny.”

“I hear a ‘but’ in there.”

“But.  Most of the time, I hardly
noticed when he was gone.  This is different.”

He flashed her one of those
smiles that could turn the most hard-hearted woman into a quivering pile of
mush.  Leaning closer, he toyed with a strand of her hair and said with an
exaggerated Boston accent, “So Momma’s gonna miss Poppa wicked bad, is she?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,
MacKenzie.”  She tugged her hair away from him and took a step backward.  “I’ll
survive just fine without you.  For three-ish weeks.  I don’t suppose you’ve
talked to Paige.”

“I wasn’t about to drag her out
of school to tell her.  One more thing she can hold against me, skipping town
without saying good-bye to her.  I’m sure she’s keeping tally somewhere.”

“You can call her later and
smooth things over.”

“For what it’s worth.  I honestly
don’t think she gives a rat’s ass whether I live or die.”

“She’ll grow out of it.  She’s a
teenager.  It comes with the territory.”

“There’s one more thing.  Since
you’re not mad at me, I need a favor.”

“Do I dare to ask?”

“My plane leaves for L.A. in
three hours.  Can you give me a ride to the airport?”

***

She wasn’t able to shake the
edgy, anxious feeling that took hold of her the moment he was in the air,
couldn’t figure out what was wrong.  They’d been flying away from each other
for years, but for some inexplicable reason, watching that 737 carry him into a
cloudless blue sky filled her with an uncharacteristic dread.  Was it leftover
anxiety from the accident?  She’d already lost one husband, and had no
intention of losing another.  Or was it simply the physical act of separation, after
they’d been inseparable for so long?

She arrived home ahead of the
school bus, and broke the news to Paige that her father would be out of town
for an indeterminate time.  The kid eyed her coolly, said, “Figures,” and
headed to her room.  Twenty minutes later, Luke pulled into the driveway,
honked the horn, and Paige blew through the door, tossing the breathy words, “Band
practice,” over her shoulder.

Casey killed time with
housework.  Whenever she was at odds, it was always her drug of choice.  She
vacuumed, dusted, watered all her plants.  Scrubbed lavatories and toilets, the
bathtub, the shower stall.  She knew it was compulsive behavior, but it was
comforting in some twisted way.

Paige called around five to say
that she’d been invited to supper at Rose and Jesse’s house, and one of the
boys would drive her home.  Still feeling a little lost, Casey drove to the
cemetery, pulled a few weeds, and watered the rosebush she’d planted last year
on Katie’s grave.  The habitually restless ghost of Danny Fiore was oddly still
tonight, and she had nothing pressing she needed to talk over with him, so she
cut the visit short and went home.

While she was out, Rob had called
to leave the number where she could reach him for the next forty-eight hours. 
He was heading over to the studio so they could start rehearsing right away. 
God only knew when she’d hear from him again, but at least he was safe on the
ground, and she was able to exchange a little of her anxiety for relief.

She picked a late cucumber from
the garden, sliced a ripe tomato, made a salad for supper, and ate it alone at
the kitchen table.  When Paige came home, they watched a movie together before
retiring to their rooms for the night.  But sleep was elusive.  For some
reason, she was feeling agitated, weird, a little unglued.  The room was too
hot, the bed was too empty, and her insides were churning with anxiety.  She
rolled and flipped and thrashed, until the bedding was a totally disheveled hot
mess, and then she lay for hours, watching the hands of the bedside clock move
with agonizing sloth.  She calculated the time difference between Maine and
California, wondered whether he’d even be in his hotel room.  He could be out
all night, especially if he had a mere forty-eight hours to learn Cold House’s
set.

At three-twenty a.m., she gave
in, picked up the phone and dialed the number he’d left on her answering
machine.  In the darkness, she cradled the receiver to her ear, feeling a
peculiar sense of déjà vu.  How many late-night phone calls had they shared in
that dark and murky time after Danny died?  Those calls had kept her
functioning, had kept her upright and breathing.  They’d been an odd blend of
comfort and courtship, for there had been no traditional courtship between the
two of them.  Only fifteen years of emotional foreplay before they became
lovers.  Nobody would ever accuse her of being conventional when it came to
husbands.  She’d married Danny three days after they met.  With Rob, it had
taken sixteen years.

Three thousand miles away, the
phone rang.  Five times, then six.  Just as she was about to give up, he
answered, sounding hoarse and muzzy from sleep.  Something inside her went all
soft, like chocolate left too long in the sun.  “Hey,” she said.

He paused for an instant, trying
to pull himself out of sleep, then said groggily, “Hey.”

“I woke you.  I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay.”  He made some kind of
soft sound in the back of his throat, and her chocolaty insides went softer.  “I
live to be dragged out of sleep by you.”  He paused for another instant, then
said, “Everything okay?”

“Bad night.”

She heard the rustle of bedding. 
“What’s wrong?”  He sounded more awake this time.

“Nothing, really.  Not anything I
can put my finger on.  I’ve been trying for hours, but I can’t sleep.  I’ve
just been so antsy ever since you left.  All jittery and weird.”

“That’s not like you, babe.  If
you really didn’t want me to go, you should have said something.  I could have
called Chico back and told him I couldn’t do it.  You know I would’ve stayed
with you if you asked.”

“And that’s why I didn’t ask. 
You’re a musician.  It’s what you do.  It makes you happy.  I would never
interfere with that.”

“
You
make me happy.”

“Maybe it’s just that this is the
first time we’ve been apart.”

“Ever since the day you tracked
me down in Boston and told me we were getting married.”

In the darkness, she smiled and
said, “I did no such thing.”

“I stand corrected.  You strongly
suggested we get married.”

“I proposed to you.  That’s a
little more than a strong suggestion.”

“Call it what you want, I’m glad
you did it.  So you really miss me that much, do you?”

“Apparently so,” she said,
hearing the surprise in her own voice.  She couldn’t figure out what was wrong,
why she was feeling all weak and shaky and anxious.  She’d never been the
clingy, needy type of woman, never been the kind to come unglued just because
her man was out of town.

“Are you crying, Fiore?”

She swiped at a tear and said, “Of
course not.”

“You’re a really lousy liar.  Do
you want me to come home?  Because if you do—”

“I’m fine now.  I just needed to
hear the sound of your voice.”

“Next time I go out of town, you’re
coming with me.”

“I think that would probably be a
good idea.  But I’m okay now that I’ve talked to you.  Really.”

He cleared his throat and said, “So…are
you in bed?”

“I am.  Why?”

In a really bad Pepé le Pew
accent that sounded more like the Count from Sesame Street—or possibly Zsa Zsa
Gabor—he said, “So,
ma cherie
, tell me vhat you’re vearing.”

She let out a soft snort of
laughter.  “MacKenzie,” she said, “you are such a letch.”

“I’m just trying to be
accommodating.  I figured since it’s the sound of my voice you needed, I could
talk dirty to you.  Get you all hot and bothered, then you could maybe—”

“Very tempting,” she said, “but
no.  There will be no phone sex.”

“Fiore, you are such a
disappointment as a wife.”